Not That Girl
by PenguinofProse
Summary: How Bellamy and Echo might have got together on the Ring with the spectre of Clarke looming over them. Implied Bellarke.


**a/n Hello and welcome! I'm going to drop this here, along with the idea that shipping endgame Bellarke and time-jump Becho are not mutually exclusive, and then I'm going to run away and hide...**

"I'm not her." Bellamy says, the first time they speak, six days in. "Don't thank me. It was her idea."

The damn spy should have known she'd get a response like that, he thinks. She should have realised that thanking him for saving her life would get her a verbal slap. Because obviously that was only going to remind him of the woman he didn't save, the woman he would rather have saved.

"Well, I can't thank her, can I?" Echo asks, evidently frustrated that he is uninterested in her gratitude. But what use is gratitude to him, now that the world is burning? Now that _she_ is burning with it?

He doesn't dignify that with an answer, simply walks away down the corridor dashing an angry hand across his eyes. He doesn't deserve anyone's thanks, not after what he's done. He is not the one who saved them.

Only no one can thank _her_, because she's dead.

…...

"I'm not her." Echo tells him, the first time they kiss, two years in.

She's pretty sure that's not the correct way to respond to a frantic kiss from a guy she's always found a little too attractive. It smacks of ingratitude, she fears, and of throwing away opportunities and questioning her luck. Being kissed by Bellamy is, quite literally, the best thing that's happened to her in _years_ and she's pretty sure that bringing up the looming spectre of the woman he lost is the quickest way to throw it all away.

He surprises her, though. He's full of surprises, this one.

"I know you're not her." He bites out too loudly, lips still a hair's breadth from hers. "You're not her, because she's _dead_. Because I _left her_ to die. I don't want you to be her. I just need you to be _someone_."

And then he gets back on with kissing her.

…...

Echo's not _her_, and that's a good thing, right now. At this moment in time, three years in, he does not want anyone who actually understands him, or has so much as an inkling of what's going on in his head. He wants Echo, because she is about as unthreatening as relationships get.

He gives an empty laugh at that thought, as he lies in his lonely bed and wonders about going to join Echo in hers. It is ironic beyond belief that he's now thinking of Echo as _unthreatening_. Of course, she could still murder him in at least sixty different ways before he could so much as blink. But she's unthreatening on an emotional level, doesn't ask questions, doesn't want to talk about his feelings. And that's just as well, really, because he's pretty sure he doesn't have feelings. Not since _she_ died, and his feelings died with her.

He seems to remember that feelings used to be his thing, that she once stood there and told him he was ruled too much by his heart. But he struggles to believe that, now, one year to the day into a relationship with a woman he still knows next to nothing about beyond her name.

Whatever this is that he's doing with Echo, it has already lasted longer than the few short months he even knew _her_. That other woman, the blonder, shorter, kinder one. The one who understood him too well.

At times like this, he finds himself thinking that it's just as well she's dead. Because if by some miracle she had made it through his abandonment and lived to look him in the eye again, he's not sure he'd survive the experience. After leaving her behind, he's pretty sure he wouldn't even deserve to _speak_ to her, much less kiss her. He wouldn't deserve any part of her.

As it is, he thinks he might just about deserve a traitor on a good day.

…...

Echo's not _her_, so she has no idea what's going on in Bellamy's mind, even four years in. She is embarrassingly slow to catch on to his moods, but she reckons that's not entirely her fault when he barely actually _speaks_ to her.

They kiss a lot, though, and screw plenty, so she supposes she didn't ought to complain. She doesn't complain – how can she, when she has had this second chance at life gifted to her by a dead girl she can never repay?

But it does hurt that she always seems to be the last person to know what he's thinking. When he doesn't want to kiss her, or touch her, or even _look_ at her one day, she thinks nothing of it. He has these inexplicable moods, sometimes. But then it happens exactly a year later, and she starts to get her suspicions. The following year is enough to confirm them – he is avoiding her on the anniversary of their departure from Earth, the anniversary of _her_ death. And Echo doesn't blame him, of course she doesn't. But she just wishes he might talk about it, once in a while.

He avoids Echo, likewise, every September twenty-seventh, and she cannot for the life of her make sense of that one. What does he suppose he is commemorating then? Echo cannot ask him, of course. _She_ would ask him – no doubt about it – but if there is one thing that is clear, it is that Echo is _not her_.

So it is that another September twenty-seventh comes and goes, and once again Echo finds herself alone and confused.

"What's today"? She asks Harper, cracking at last. "Why does he always take today as – as a day for _her_?"

"It's the day he first started to fall in love." Harper murmurs, eyes anywhere but meeting Echo's. "The day she forgave him and they came back to camp as – I guess as a team."

Well, then. Five years to the day since Bellamy welcomed _her_ onto his team. Meanwhile, Echo is still waving awkwardly from the stands.

…...

Bellamy supposes that it is probably not easy to be sleeping with someone who's still in love with a ghost. Echo has his sympathies, in this regard. But that's still about all she has, besides his body.

She seems happy enough with that, as they have a good quantity of rather lively sex. They're compatible in the bedroom, he must agree. And she's generous and patient with him, and undemanding, and these are all good things.

And her mouth is about the only thing that can make him forget, just for a moment, what he left on Earth.

"I bet you're glad now that you never threw me overboard to lighten the load." She jokes, one night, as they lie curled together in satisfaction.

He knows he ought to just laugh and agree with her. It would be, he thinks, the first time he's ever said in actual words that he even appreciates her company. But somehow he finds that he is not capable of doing that. Because that was something he used to do for _her_ – to engage in lighthearted jokes laden with real meaning – and it is something that he started doing with the express intention of helping her to bear her burdens. It is, therefore, something he cannot do with Echo.

He leaves the bed, and tells Echo he's going to sleep in his own little-used room tonight.

And the following day, of course, Echo is still there, still kissing him, still not daring to question his abrupt departure or emotional obstructiveness. Because Echo is not _her_.

…...

Echo is not _her_, so she uses the F-word because she doesn't know better.

They're just fooling around in the bedroom, nothing particularly memorable, when he rolls awkwardly and ends up elbowing her in the face. And he is evidently mortified, stammering out an apology and she knows he's hating himself for it because physical relationships are about the only thing he has any confidence in, these days. So he'll be taking it to heart that he's managed to screw this up even on such a minor level.

"It's OK." She says, keeping her tone light, trying to help him laugh it off. "I forgive you."

He does not laugh it off. For the first time in all the years he has been occupying her bed, he breaks down and cries in front of her.

"Bellamy?" Echo rests a hand on his shoulder, trying for a sympathetic expression and a gentle manner. This might be her moment, she thinks, to show him that she can be there for him, to invite him to take this relationship beyond the merely physical.

"It's something that makes me think of her." He explains through his tears. "She always forgave me."

So much for taking this relationship _anywhere_. It is, she suspects, never going to get off the ground at this rate.

…...

Echo is not _her_, so Bellamy isn't sure why he felt the need to explain how he feels about forgiveness. But somehow it opens the floodgates, and in the days and weeks and months that follow he finds himself sharing a few other pieces of the puzzle with Echo, too.

He starts with the simple things, with seaweed tea and spike-filled pits. And then he narrates a few more complex tales, of burdens borne together and months left alone, and moves on to hands cuffed and hands held and everything in between.

And Echo takes it all in, silent as ever, but he knows her well enough, now, to see that she is not unmoved. She is just not one to wear her heart on her sleeve, and he can understand that. Hearts belong hidden, squirrelled carefully away somewhere that the world cannot hurt them.

One day he bites the bullet and does it. He swallows down his tears and tells the truth. He's determined that now is the moment to say it out loud for the first time, even though he knows that Echo knows. Even though he knows that _everyone_ in the whole of Arkadia must have known.

"I loved her."

Echo doesn't speak. She's good at stoic silence. She just holds him, and breathes with him, and for a moment, it is almost like being hugged by _her_.

…...

"I'm not _her_." Echo hisses, not sure why Raven is bothering to solicit her opinion. "Don't ask me."

"I know you're not." Raven gives a heavy sigh. "I just thought – if anyone knows how Bellamy feels about going back to the ground, it'd be you."

She doesn't have a clue how Bellamy feels about going back to the ground. Of course she doesn't. They're six years in, now, and Monty has managed to generate enough algae-based fuel to get them back to Earth, but somehow they have still not left. They are still waiting for the impetus, for the order, for something resembling leadership.

They've not had a whole lot of that to spare, since _she_ died.

"I'll speak to him." Echo says, though she suspects it'll do them little good. "But not today. It's – it's her anniversary." She reminds them, as if they could ever forget.

Raven nods, satisfied, and Echo goes on her way.

What she finds back in her room surprises her. Bellamy is pacing, beard more dishevelled than ever, running a hand through his already-tousled hair. She's absolutely shocked to see him, doesn't remember him so much as leaving his room on _her_ death-day unless absolutely necessary. So Echo is beyond confused as to why he might be here, now.

Then he opens his mouth, and for the first time in six years she finds that she actually understands what is going on in this man's head.

"We should go back to the ground." He grinds out the words. "We can't stay here forever. I can't make you all stay here just so – so I don't have to face going back to Earth and seeing her not there."

"Bellamy. It's OK – that's not -"

"It is. We all know that's why we're still here. I just have to face it."

"I'll be right there with you every step of the way." Echo promises, but she's not sure why she bothers. She suspects that he won't much care where she is, as long as there's still regular and distracting sex.

"You will?" He asks, searching her eyes with something that looks eerily like desperation and that surprises her deeply. "You'd stay with me, even when – when we're not here any more?"

"Nothing will change on the ground." She says firmly, reassuring herself as much as him. "I promise."

He stares at her, hard and long, and then he takes her breath away.

"I love you."

He doesn't bother explaining that he doesn't love Echo quite the way he loved _her_. He doesn't have to, because they both know it is true.

…...

Echo is not _her_, but he finds that he's in love all the same. It's taken him a while to mention it, because he feels somehow disloyal in falling for someone else even though _she's_ dead, and ashes, and in no state to care about his latest betrayal.

It's a different kind of love. This love is not about warm jokes while the world burned. It's about knowing that there is still a heart, somewhere, beneath their cold exteriors. But it is love all the same, and he's grateful beyond belief for this woman who loves him even though she knows what he does to people he loves.

They board the rocket, and he tries not to remember the last time he sat here. He tries not to remember the man he used to be, and he finds himself wondering if, maybe, it's OK that Echo's not _her_. Because the more he thinks about it, the more he wonders whether he might not be the Bellamy he used to be, whether he might not be the man who took this place six years ago. And maybe, if that's true, he might be able to hope that nothing will change on the ground.

They land safely. Of course they do. Raven leaves rather less death and destruction in her wake than he does, and Emori is a born survivor. And then they open the door, and fall eagerly down the steps and out into sunlight and green and _air_.

He is not the first to notice the commotion in the treeline. It is Murphy who prods him, and turns him in the right direction, and whispers a disbelieving _that's her_.

He doesn't understand. It's who?

It's someone running, a blonde blur of life and light streaking towards him, and suddenly he gets it. He understands, in a warm rush of certainty that _everything_ must change on the ground.

Because somehow, against all the odds, that _is_ her. That's _Clarke_.

**a/n Thanks for reading!**


End file.
